What
is this thing -
this commune of souls
we now join?
Like calm weirpool’s rest
after spin of current
washing names
from stones.
You have entered me
and I have entered you
and we are one -
beneath the wind,
beneath the river kiss,
beneath even clefted earth.
And still we ask.

Watch now before you blink
Don’t miss the twinkling shards,
The spin against the water’s cloak
No number counts these thoughts you think.
Catch now the roaring chains of light
Afore this smudden dull of winter night
Before our afterwards of summertide
Such ancient thrills that now evoke,
Must fade like silvered ink -
Return the borrowed hours
Masking season’s interlink.

All hear the Bellowhead
Sucking us in - like fireflies
Circling end of summer sigh
From young bucks leap
O’er old man’s grimace grey.
Like madrigal birds at dusk -
On accordion breath that heaves,
With fiddling sentry’s hotfoot dance
To circus lights and roguery.
Let it blow like Bucovina brass
And let us show our red flamed hair,
Then know this copper breeze
That hails a bellowed call
Of grand traditions,
In the air.

Beds not made,
and dusty sills,
the washing-up and
headache pills.
The harshest words
for smallest ills -
like huff and puff
on trundled hills.
The words not spoke,
the things undone
from plans not won,
and songs unsung.
The wasted time
like chastened sand
that fell on hands,
or clutched sunshine,
and two-few smiles
not feared of miles.
And all of the above,
is not enough.

‘You are beautiful’ he wrote.
Scribbled on a thousand notes.
Trailing morning route -
stuck on posts
and windows too.

‘You are beautiful’ she read,
and saw this thing he said.
Running to her head -
like crushskin bread
and tiny clues.

‘How beautiful’ she thought.
A lover’s kind report?
Or was this last resort?
Either way,
Quite obviously NOT
her sort.

I am not nude
nor posed
nor pre-supposed
I am not rude
nor exposed
nor juxtaposed
and I’m not crude
or self-imposed.
This matter’s
closed.

Such is passion you invoke
Much are feelings you provoke
Touched I am by tender stroke
Like hushing flame and twisting smoke
Lush sense knows you have awoke
Like midnight flush on new moon oak
I rush to hear the words you spoke
For such is passion you invoke.

Shut up, cut the cord
From you to a future come
Stretched but sanguine too.

All of you bloody poets
Who do you think you are?
How dare you feign to speak
For puzzled souls like me.
And just because you aim to voice
What I only sense inside
It doesn’t make you right,
It doesn’t mean you’re qualified.
You say the things the way you do,
To make me try and work things out.
Stop questioning the way I feel -
Start writing about you,
And who the hell,
You poets think
You are.

All human life is here,
And the water doesn’t mind.
Young wavemakers in laughter,
Mothers below the wash,
Fathers sucking stomachs in.
And the water doesn’t mind.
It doesn’t mind the chemicals
The toddler piss, the heated hiss
It doesn’t heed the constant churn
Of carefree souls that never learn.
All human life is passing through
Equal skin in belly of pool.
Dabbling playful shallow,
Daring deepest end,
Darkest unknown floor.
And still the water
Does not mind.

Gather in the sun
Make the most
Before it’s done
Watch ripples
One last time
See the flowerings
Nature’s won
Meditate on how
Summer’s changed
The evening show
And even birdsong
Before season’s reel
And greying days
We all will know
Farewell now
To kind and warm
Before the storm
Before the spike
Of needle wind
And open souls
transformed.

I made a mistake.
This isn’t my life after all.
They said; ‘life’s what you make it’
but that’s just not true.
I would never admit defeat,
but must own up to some conceit -
I thought the world was there to take,
thought the earth was mine
beneath my feet.
But now come whisperings,
thoughts I should probably heed -
responsibilities and tripping points
like nine tenth icebergs,
cold and waiting underneath for me.
Yes, I’ll now admit to my mistake -
at least that’s one choice
I alone can make.

In all I’ve said
I’ve tried to say
In all I’ve told
I’ve tried to tell
In all, I’ve tried.

Press ‘1′ for feeling
Press ‘2′ for imagination
Press ‘3′ for respect
Press ‘#’ to start again.
Insert this, in that
then key it in.
Forget ink and pen
but remember your PIN
And check everything
you’ve entered…
I must be stupid
(or something)?
The system says
I’m overdue -
cannot continue,
but I know different.
Send me down the chute,
where fall self-serve damned
with fingers trapped and bruised,
digit-split, but humanity intact.
And someone tell those automated folks;
‘Guess what, we are people too’
before all the royal operatives,
become otherwise engaged.
Go on - supposedly they
really value our calls.
I could do it myself
but today, I’m indisposed.
So please, feel free
to leave a message
after the tone.

My heart was a sea-cracked harbour wall
Where once young legends lept and fell
In macho dare and banished care
In acrobatic grace and boastful tell
That knew not well of rocky layer
Below the lowest touch of tide
Below the coldest shock of blue
Still hearing shouts of youth
Amidst the seagull cries
That circle old men’s eyes
I watch for catch of sea
And sigh.

One day the world will stop
And you shall leap the circle’s roll
Though still, the glassy pebbles fly
And angry boulders run down hills
Onto shoulders push against the pull
With wavering urge of spinning tops
And spiralling seeds in final fall
Like Catherine Wheels that call.
And when rounding winds desire
They’ll cease their turn within
For such is fate that shall retire.
One day the world will stop
And you, will carry on.

Oh, sorry.
Didn’t mean to offend.
I was just … resting here awhile
Thinking on things, journeying inside.
The rules involved weren’t clear to me,
I did not think you’d mind so much.
Me, just sitting and watching
This world and others passing by,
Not knowing you demand a show.
Tell you what, give me a few more days.
Just need to collect my thoughts
Before moving on.

What a perfect lawn.
Bottle green nourished and sparkling
In the dawn like a King’s blanket,
Carefully thrown across the ground below.
It was here, she thought of him.
Here, where she let children loop their hearts,
Watched ambling lovers rest and sip red wine
Where nervous souls unwound the day
And owls embraced their quiet time.
This barefoot salve for tired steps
A million tiny hands that stroked,
That told of newness in the day
But always reminding her of him.
And she, amidst this memory,
so proud of tender green.
He’d just laid down.

What they had is gone,
And all I feel is blankness.
Numbed like some medicated fool
Avoiding their wretched reality.
It’s not indifference or avoidance though -
I suspect it to be more a kind of odd guilt,
Like a fog that pities the landscape
But nonetheless must smother the light below.
Something IS there, but must not be seen,
Something is aware, but nust not be known.
All they had is gone and I’m numb again.
With hollowness, with vague intent
Writing to you under
Postcard-dry skies.
What else can
I do?